


take my hand (take my whole life too)

by zayniall



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Oh, Swearing, That was a joke - Freeform, Unrequited Love, Wow, also an insight into the english youth, but theres a bit of bromance i guess, bye, either go gay or go home, except not really, i hate the word bromance, i need to work on happy endings, i'll shut up now, if this fic had a colour it would be grey, lots of swearing, more niallloveszayn, sort of, why is everything i write so depressing, ziall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:00:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zayniall/pseuds/zayniall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niall doesn’t even flinch as the porcelain cracks and rains down onto the floor. He stands in the doorway and watches for a moment as the man he loves tugs at the ends of his hair and curls into a tiny ball, his tears darkening his grey jeans. An odd sense of satisfaction settles itself in Niall’s stomach because Zayn is finally experiencing what Niall goes through every fucking day of his fucked up life.</p><p>And once those three centimetres of black heart are satisfied, the rest of him falls apart and crumbles away and he’d do anything to take away the pain wrenching through Zayn in loud sobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my hand (take my whole life too)

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this a while ago, and I just never posted it. I'm not entirely happy with it, and the ending is rushed and I feel I could've done better. But I feel like posting it, so I'm going to. And I guess I'm sorry because it's pretty shit, but try to enjoy it, maybe? Thanks.

People say there’s a thin line between love and hate, but they never pay attention to the way it’s worded. There’s a thin line between _love_ and _hate_. There’s never a thin line between _hate_ and _love_ , and there never will be.

 Because when you hate somebody, you criticise everything they do. This burning desire to find some way to give them hell crawls through your veins every waking moment, and your blood boils into rivers of flames whenever you see them. They will never be perfect (and you see that as a bad thing), never be anything you want, and you’re fine with that. In a weird way, you _like_ hating them. It gives you a sense of purpose; to make someone’s life shit. You never have guilt, never feel sorry for them or wish they could live in better circumstances. You hate them, simple as.

When you love someone it’s the same, sort of. They consume your thoughts every moment you breathe, cloud your judgement, make you do stupid things. Send you a bit mental, really. You’d do anything for them, anything at all to make them happy. Run to the ends of the Earth to make them love you back, sell your soul to the fucking Devil to make sure they continue loving you. You’d give up everything you own for them, put yourself in harm’s way to keep them safe. 

But, when you’re in love or in hate, you’re never living for yourself. You’re being swallowed up by these feelings for somebody else that shoot through your body every day. You adjust yourself and your personality and the way you dress and the way you talk, walk, think, to suit them.

 The difference is; a lot can go wrong in love.

When you offer yourself to somebody, completely give yourself to them, you’re blind to any of their flaws. There’s never a little voice saying ‘but what if it goes wrong, what will you do then?’ which makes you shield some of yourself away. Because it _just won’t_ go wrong, so you give them everything you’ve got. They’re _perfect_ , for Christ’s sake. At least in your mind. 

So when things do go wrong, when they utterly tear you apart, set you alight and piss on your ashes, you’re left broken and untrusting and _hurt_. You did _everything_ for them, and this is how they repay you. How fucking _dare_ they. And just like that, everything falls away and this ugly monster rears its head in your soul and whispers _you hate them_ into your ear over and over again until you believe it. So you hate them, and they’re still on your mind every day, still haunt your dreams, but this time it’s for completely different reasons.

It’s a defence mechanism, really. So that you aren’t foolish enough to forgive them, give them one more chance, and be destroyed all over again.

But with hate, you’ll always hate them. You pick fault in everything they do, they’re never a good human and they never deserve happiness or love or anything good at all. There is no possible (or impossible) thing they can do to earn your respect. If they like something you like, you stop liking it because you are in no way associated to that vile enemy of yours. So you don’t suddenly fall in love with them, you never feel anything for them other than hate hate hate.

There is another one though, one that nobody ever talks about. What if you’re on the line, one foot in love and one in hate?

It starts as love, but rather than doing a swan dive from cloud nine and slamming into the ground, it’s sort of a slow crawl towards the line of division. And when you get there, you’re mostly in love, maybe only a toe over the line. It’s more of a nudging every so often, pushing you further into hate.

And it drives you fucking insane.

*****

Niall Horan’s 15 years old, long haired, scrawny despite the fact that he eats like a fucking plough horse (“it’s the fast metabolism”), barely has a hair on his legs (“’Course I’ve got hair on my legs, they’re blonde so you have to look close!” “Let me see then.” “This lighting’s shit mate, couldn’t find a flashing elephant in here, nevermind hair.”) and has the worst fucking fashion sense in the whole of London. 

He’s at a party, a friend of a friend’s. Free beer and weed, nothing he was going to say no to. An hour in and Niall’s stoned out of his fucking mind, laid on the grass outside, another (third to be precise) joint hanging loosely between his lips, releasing curling grey smoke into the air and he crosses his eyes to watch as it disperses into nothing, one side of his mouth tilted into an amused smile. 

“Mate, it’s the middle of fucking _January_ , why the fuck are you laid outside in _shorts_?” The voice comes from his right, over at the house, and it’s smooth like caramel and Niall thinks he wouldn’t mind hearing it every day. 

Niall turns his head to the side and it takes him 5.2 seconds to find the boy because it’s almost midnight and he’s stood in the shadows, and then it takes another 6.8 seconds for Niall’s brain to conjure a response, which consists of a shrug and a mumbled “’m not cold”.

“You’re not cold because you’re higher than Mount fucking Everest and your central nervous system isn’t working right, you idiot.”

Niall thinks he says it affectionately.

Stepping out of the shadows, the boys puts out the cigarette he’s been dragging the poison from and then walks closer to Niall and Niall- _oh_.

His skin’s caramel, like his voice, and Niall wonders if his cheekbones would slice open your skin if you were to run your fingers along them. He has some pretty impressive eyelashes too; thick and curled and dark, the kind that girls would envy. Niall thinks he may possibly be the prettiest boy he’s ever seen.

The boy kicks Niall lightly in the ribs, and Niall stops staring. “I’m Zayn.”

Niall starts laughing. “What kind of name is Zayn?” He snorts and probably dislodges the mucus in his nose because he starts coughing and then rolls to the side to spit.

“That’s disgusting.” Zayn mutters, reaching his hand out and grabbing Niall’s shirt, pulling him up from the floor and steadying him with a hand on his waist. “And it’s a pretty fucking alright name, you twat.”

Niall laughs again (and Zayn will find out later that Niall laughs at everything) and shrugs. “Whatever man, I’m Niall.”

It’s Zayn’s turn to snicker. “You laugh at my name when you’re called _Niall_? Are you like an Irish fucking pimp or something?”

When Niall just blinks at him, Zayn’s mouth twists and he bites his lip to stop himself full on grinning. “You’re Irish, aren’t you?”

Niall thinks he likes it when Zayn bites his lip. He rolls his eyes, and it makes him look slightly possessed, and Zayn tells him so. “Fuck off man, and yeah, I’m Irish. Can’t you tell?”

Zayn shakes his head. “Niall, I can’t even tell if you’re a fucking girl or a boy with the state you’re in.”

They walk back towards the house, Zayn promising to get Niall a beer if he just sits near the radiator and warms the fuck up. When he returns a few minutes later with two bottles of Budweiser (“it’s cheap but it does the fucking job”) and sits down next to Niall, Niall clamps the bottle cap between his teeth and wrenches until the metal bends slightly and lifts off.

“Niall, I had a fucking bottle opener.” Zayn says, waving the contraption in front of Niall’s face and Niall shrugs, huffing out a laugh.

“It’s my party trick,” He says and knocks the beer back.

Zayn opens his own beer with the bottle opener (“I like my teeth in my mouth, not on the floor because I was being a dick.”) and they watch the crowd of rowdy teenagers as they dance and drink. There’s three sat on the opposite sofa, blinking up at the ceiling in amazement and dribbling down their own chins, one guy talking animatedly to the house plant beside him. (“Trippy paper,” Niall explains and Zayn blinks at him. “LSD.” And then Zayn gets it.)

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Niall breaks it.

“Zayn?” He says, and Zayn looks over at him, his pupils dilated and cheeks flushed from the beer and the weed. Niall’s mouth turns a bit dry, and he has to gulp from his beer to sort it out. “I’m a boy.”

Mouth tipping up slightly at the edges, Zayn looks away and takes a drink before answering. “I know, Niall.”

*****

 

It takes Niall three years and a shared flat to work out that he might be a bit in love with Zayn.

He realises when he’s halfway through a coffee and the thought crosses his mind that, even though coffee is the perfect description of Zayn (dark, not too bitter, not too sweet, never bland, quite interesting, warm, relaxing), Zayn hates it because “it leaves a funny aftertaste” that he “can’t get rid of”. Niall starts promptly choking on the drink and ends up with it dribbling down his chin and a stain on his trousers before Zayn grabs the drink out of his hand and slaps him around the head.

“You’re supposed to hit me on the back, Zayn.” Niall mutters, twitching his nose to make the burning sensation go away.

“You’re supposed to swallow properly you fucking idiot,” Zayn replies, laughing and sitting back down, flicking through the TV channels lazily.

“Look like I’ve pissed myself,” Niall mutters unhappily, rubbing at the wet patch on his crotch with his sleeve.

“Always do.”

Niall throws a pillow at him, and Zayn pulls it behind his head, resting on it and smirking. They fall back into their routine and Niall’s coffee remains unfinished. He leaves it to go cold (“Why do you always do that? It leaves a mark around the mug you little shit. It’s not hard to wash a fucking mug, Niall.” “... you want to get pizza tonight?” A sigh. “Yeah, alright.”) and he never thinks about love again that year.

*****

 

Thirteen months later, Zayn brings home Perrie. She’s blonde and she’s got big eyes and even bigger tits and a mouth that looks as though it’d work wonders.

“We’ve been seeing each other for about four months now and, well, I thought you should meet her.” The couple are sat on the sofa, hands linked together, both smiling up at him hopefully.

Niall bites into the cold pizza slice in his hand (“Why the fuck do you eat so much shit? Do you know how bad it is for you?” “Do I look like I give a shit?” Silence, and then, “Pass me some.”) and shrugs one shoulder. “Awrighf,” He spits out around a mouthful of food, crumbs flying.

Niall wishes he could rewind and repeat the smile that almost crack’s Zayn’s face in half.

And maybe photoshop Perrie out of the picture, but Niall’s never been good with computers so he walks past them and throws himself down on the sofa, ignoring the pain in his throat that makes his pizza hard to swallow and the air hard to breathe.

 

*****

 

It gets harder.

Niall tries to be happy for Zayn, because seeing him smile and brighten up whenever _her_ caller ID flashed on his phone should make Niall happy too. All he ever wanted was for Zayn to be happy. And for a while he believes his own bluff.

But then it’s Christmas eve and Zayn stumbles into their flat at 10:30pm (“Just going out for a meal and drink with Perrie. I’ll be back in an hour or two.” Swallow. “Alright.”) and his eyes are glassy in the way they always are when he’s had over six beers (Niall’s counted) and his cheeks are flushed, and _she_ is latched onto his arm, giggling into his chest.

“Hey, Niall.” Zayn says and puts Perrie down on the sofa.

“Alright, mate?”

“Perrie’s gonna stay tonight. I thought we could all spend Christmas together. That’ll be fucking amazing, yeah?” Zayn’s looking at him hopefully and Niall nods.

“Yeah,” Standing, he walks towards the kitchen. “You want two’s?” He asked, rolling a joint on the kitchen counter and looking over at Zayn.

He shakes his head softly. “Nah, Perrie hates it when I smoke that shit. And- uh, can you not do it in here? She hates the smell.” His gaze turns to Perrie who’s fallen asleep on the sofa and he smiles gently. 

That’s when Niall feels it. The first nudge, pushing him the first centimetre over the line between love and hate. Swallowing thickly, he grabs the lighter out of the draw and walks towards the door of the flat. “Alright.”

Standing outside, he inhales the poison of the joint and thinks he can maybe feel his heart blackening like the toxins blacken his lungs.

And it’s not even Perrie he’s started to hate.

It’s Zayn.

*****

 

Three months on, Niall can’t even bare to be in the same room as the pair. He makes up any excuse to get out of hanging out with them, and for a while they let him.

Niall seems to forget that Zayn is his best friend though, and that he knows Niall better than anyone. When they’re alone one night, playing Fifa and Niall is winning (“You owe me a fiver you little fucker.”), Zayn pauses the game.

“Zayn, what the fu-”

Zayn cuts him off. “Niall, what the fuck is up with you lately when it comes to me and Perrie?”

Oh, so it’s like that.

Niall swallows and frowns. “What do you mean?” (He knows exactly what he means)

“Leaving whenever we come within a fucking mile of you, making up the shittest excuses I’ve ever heard. “I have this book I need to read for a class thing.” Really, Niall? I’m not fucking stupid. Do you have a problem with her or me, because, well, I really don’t want you to have. You mean a fucking lot to me, Niall, and I want you to approve of the girl I love.” 

Niall isn’t sure whether to focus on the ‘you mean a lot to me’, or the ‘the girl I love’. “Oh, uh, I just don’t want to intrude. I mean, you don’t want me around whenever you’re both here. It’s shit being a third wheel, mate.” He laughs to try lighten the conversation but Zayn just looks at him with those fucking pleading puppy eyes and Niall has to look away before he does something stupid.

“You’re never a third wheel, Niall. You never will be.” Zayn sighs quietly, running his hand through his hair in the way Niall knows he does when he’s frustrated. “Do- do you mind Perrie?” 

Niall looks back over at him and it’d be so easy to say “well yeah because I’m a bit in love with you” but Zayn’s searching for approval and acceptance and Niall would never deny him anything that he wanted. “Nah, she’s good.” He says, nodding and Zayn smiles.

He leans over and rests his head in the crook of Niall’s neck, breathing in his scent. “Thanks, Ni.”

His heart hitches but then freezes over a little more because it’s not fucking fair that he can’t cuddle with Zayn every day, can’t leave him breathless and boneless every night, can’t make him fall in love with him. “Anytime, Z.” 

Just like that, he’s pushed two centimetres further.

 

*****

 

After three years of endured pain, the world finally gives Niall a little relief.

Perrie breaks up with Zayn, and it’s messy and ragged and Zayn’s lost and the three centimetres of Niall that are pushed over the line are laughing at Zayn.

“I never once treated her bad, Ni, I gave her every fucking thing she wanted and it still wasn’t enough.” He whispers, his voice cracking as he sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the floor. “Why does she have to be such an ungrateful little bitch?” His voice rises and he picks the beside lamp up and launches it at the wall.

Niall doesn’t even flinch as the porcelain cracks and rains down onto the floor. He stands in the doorway and watches for a moment as the man he loves tugs at the ends of his hair and curls into a tiny ball, his tears darkening his grey jeans. An odd sense of satisfaction settles itself in Niall’s stomach because Zayn is finally experiencing what Niall goes through every fucking day of his fucked up life.

And once those three centimetres of black heart are satisfied, the rest of him falls apart and crumbles away and he’d do anything to take away the pain wrenching through Zayn in loud sobs. 

So he climbs into bed with him and curls himself around him, murmuring softly into his ear and gently humming that one song that him and Zayn used to sing all the time when they were 18. He kisses his cheek and then his temple and flattens down his hair, and eventually Zayn’s breathing evens out and he stops shaking. 

“Sometimes I wish it was you I fell in love with, Ni.” Zayn’s voice is hoarse and defeated as he mumbles into the skin of Niall’s neck.

And Niall thinks _fuck you_ , but says “don’t be daft” instead.

*****

Zayn forgives her, and Niall doesn’t think he can do it anymore.

He walks around like he’s got some sort of fucked up split personality disorder; one second he’ll be laughing with Zayn and doing something stupid, the next he’ll be cold and hostile, giving one word answers and locking himself away in his bedroom.

When Zayn asks, he tells him that he’s just feeling stressed lately and Zayn looks as though he doesn’t believe him but nods and runs his hand through Niall’s hair gently and asks if he wants to watch the box set of James Bond they haven’t seen in a while. Niall is almost inclined to say no, but he will never disappoint Zayn.

It’s all building up, he can feel his strings are strung too tightly and he’s reaching the point of snapping.

So he rings up his Mum, and he tells her that he misses her and the family, and misses Ireland, and she tells him to come over. Niall smiles, because that way he’s not leaving Zayn for selfish reasons; he’s going for his Mum.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know, a month, maybe a few months?” He shrugs one shoulder and continues to pack his bag.

Zayn’s face falls slightly. “Oh,” Leaning against the doorframe, he clenches his jaw and looks down. “Niall, we’re alright, aren’t we?”

Niall looks up, stares at him for a second and then nods. “Yeah, Zayn, we’re alright. Always will be.” 

“Promise?”

“Yeah, promise.”

Another centimetre. 

*****

 

Halfway through his third month in Ireland, Niall gets a call from Zayn.

“When you coming home, Ni? I’ve got some news.”

Niall frowns slightly, his mind jumping to the worst. “Oh, shit, what’s happened? Is it something bad? Are you okay?”

A laugh sounds on the other end of the line, crackling in Niall’s ear. “Christ, Niall, calm down. I’m fine. And, well, it’s good news actually.” He pauses for a second and Niall hears him lick his lips, smiling at the imagery. “Perrie’s pregnant.”

His breathing hitches and bile rises in his throat and he thinks he might pass out so he sits down on the kitchen floor, his back against the wall and stares unseeingly at the pattern in the wood of the table.

“Niall?”

And, shit, yeah, he’s on the phone. “Oh- wow, Zayn. Are you sure you’re both ready for this?”

“We’ve talked about it Niall, and yeah, we are. I’m gonna be a dad, Ni.” He can practically hear the grin on his face. “When you coming home?”

Niall blinks and licks his lips, breathing out shakily. “I was gonna spend the rest of the year here, Zayn. I, uh, actually have some news too. It’s not good though. I was gonna call you today about it, actually. Mum’s- she’s sick. She’s, uh, she’s got cancer.” He closes his eyes and rests his head back against the wall, listening to Zayn breathing on the other line.

“I’m so sorry, Ni.” He whispers, and Niall wants to cry, but he doesn’t.

“Yeah.”

“How long?” Zayn asks quietly, and Niall gets what he means. How long left.

“Two years, and that’s optimistic.”

“I don’t know what to say, Ni.”

“Me either.”

“I’m always here, just a phone call away, yeah?”

Niall’s voice cracks a little when he speaks. “Yeah.”

“I love you, Ni.”

“Love you too,” He whispers back and hangs up.

For the first time in seven years, Niall cries.

*****

 

She never makes it two years. Never even makes it one.

Niall’s still in Ireland, goes to the hospital one day, six months after the phone call, and she’s gone.

“We tried to contact you, Mr. Horan, but there were no details for you registered in the hospital database. I’m terribly sorry for your loss, and I regret you had to find out this way.” The nurse says to him and gives him a sympathetic look.

Niall books a flight home that night, and when he knocks on the door to his shared apartment, Zayn answers with a bundle of pink in his arms, but one look at Niall pink-eyed and tired-faced and he knows.

He passes the baby to Perrie and she gives Niall a look like the nurse did and he hates it, then Zayn pulls him in and he goes willingly, falling into his chest and clutching at his shirt, sobbing loudly into Zayn’s shoulder and neck. He doesn’t even care that Perrie is watching; he just wants Zayn to make everything okay, rub his back and soothe him and keep him away from all the pain and torture in the world.

But Niall remembers that Zayn is a cause of the pain and torture, and that’s another nudge.

*****

 

Eventually they move out, and Niall grows colder. 

The flat is too big without Zayn, the fridge is never full enough, the sofa’s never warm enough, his tea is never made properly because Zayn made it better than he could make it himself, and he never has anybody to talk to.

Zayn texts him every day, calls in every once in a while, but it’s not the same and there’s an aching gap in Niall’s heart that calls out Zayn’s name every time it beats. 

Niall really, really doesn’t think he can do it anymore. He wishes he’d get hit by a car or accidentally shot or mugged and stabbed or fall down the stairs and crack his head open, just anything to take this pain away because it throbs and burns and consumes every thought he has and every move he makes.

He needs to leave. Not just a break like he did to Ireland; he needs to go, start his life again and forget about London and Zayn and Perrie and baby Rain.

“I just need to go, Zayn, I’m not happy here and I don’t think I ever will be. I don’t belong here. You believe in all that fate shit, right? This isn’t my fate, Zayn.”

Zayn looks devastated but he nods. “If you think it’s what’s right, Niall, then do it. Please just call or text or something.” His voice wavers slightly and Niall sighs.

“I’d never just abandon you, Zayn. I just need to leave.”

*****

They spend the best part of a month together before he goes, hanging out and being their old selves, and it makes it harder to let go, but he still does it.

 *****

Niall goes to America (“Living in New York is like the dream everyone secretly has.” “Apart from the people who already live there, Niall.” “Well, yeah, apart from them.”) and he tries to focus on making himself happy for once, rather than somebody else.

At first all he can think about is Zayn and how wrong he was for coming here and _I need to go back_ but then things start getting easier and Zayn sometimes slips his mind and he meets new people and makes new friends and starts building up his love of music and ability to play guitar into something a bit more. He never makes it big, but he earns enough to get by if he combines it with a job behind the bar. 

Three years later, he gets a phone call. It’s nothing new really; Zayn calls him at least once every week. (“You cost me a fucking arm and a leg with these international calls, you twat.”)

“’M getting married, Niall.” Zayn says and laughs lightly.

And, oh, that’s new.

Niall smiles, a real smile. “I’m happy for you, Zayn.” And this time he really is.

“You gonna come?”

Niall stays quiet for a few seconds. “Nah, Z. I’m... busy, you know? Got my own life.” 

“Yeah, I get it.” Zayn doesn’t sound disappointed which is a relief to Niall and he relaxes his shoulders. “I’m still gonna send you pictures though, you cunt. You can’t get away from me that easily.”

It’s a little sad, really, how true Zayn’s words are.

Niall still has dreams about Zayn, still thinks about him every day and still misses him with everything he’s got.

But he knows that this if for the best; Zayn in London and Niall in America. It’s better for the both of them, and maybe one day he’ll go visit Zayn and Perrie again, maybe one day he’ll move back to England and fall back into their lives, but for now he’s happy here, and hopes that Zayn is happy where he is.

Niall never stops loving Zayn, but he never stops hating him either.

And he never tells him either of the two.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ITS FUNNY BECAUSE ZAYN AND PERRIE ARE ACTUALLY ENGAGED NOW HAHA HAHA fuck


End file.
